


En Garde

by argyle4eva



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Gen, Humor
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-04-17
Updated: 2011-04-17
Packaged: 2017-10-18 06:47:41
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,571
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/186135
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/argyle4eva/pseuds/argyle4eva
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Written for <a href="http://sherlockbbc-fic.livejournal.com/8651.html?thread=38263243#t38263243">this</a> kinkmeme prompt: <i>"Crack or serious if you can do it (just don't make it shippy please): swordfight between Mycroft with his umbrella and John with his cane.”</i></p>
            </blockquote>





	En Garde

**Author's Note:**

> I'll say up front that I don't actually fence historical rapier myself, but I hang out with people who do – so I hope I've got the details correct, but if I haven't, mea culpa. For those who would like examples of the two fencing styles mentioned (which are rather different than Olympic fencing), [here's a video](http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=lW97Hgeu3Lo) showing Spanish and Italian style facing off. I'm sure you'll be able to recognize which is which . . .
> 
> I wasn't planning on writing this, and it's been yet another distraction from “Peace and Goodwill” and my Japan auction fic . . . but once I realized Mycroft would fence Spanish style I just had to write it.

“Look,” John said for the umpteenth time, barely holding on to his temper, “I don't _know_ where Sherlock is. He doesn't exactly go handing out his schedule, you know.”

“Not to _me_ , certainly,” Mycroft responded, “but I suspect he's more forthcoming with his flatmate and, dare I say it, sidekick.”

John gritted his teeth but didn't rise to the bait, much as he wanted to. He shifted his weight, leaning more strongly on his cane to ease the ache in his uncooperative leg. Psychosomatic or not, mostly cured or not, every now and then it still hurt – especially when he was stressed and annoyed. Like now.

“Just text him,” he gritted out. He'd been headed out the door for a pint and a much-needed spot of relaxation at the corner pub when Mycroft materialized and barged into the flat, looking for Sherlock. The delay was not improving John's temper.

“I did. He's not answering me.”

“Well, then, there you go. He'll get in touch when he's ready to talk. Now, if you'll excuse me . . .” John snatched his coat from the back of his chair and made to step around Mycroft – only to find his way blocked by Mycroft's outstretched umbrella.

The gesture was so arrogant, so preemptory, it was the final straw. Without thinking, John reached up with his right hand, the one holding his cane, and slapped the offending implement aside.

Instead of trying to resist the impact, Mycroft instead turned the momentum into a tight, easy circle that ended with the metal tip of the umbrella pointed unerringly at John's face. At the same time he moved to block John's progress with his body, placing himself firmly in front of the flat's doorway.

Something about Mycroft's posture wakened long-dormant reactions in John; without conscious thought, he found his posture shifting, dropping into a fencer's stance, his grip on the cane becoming more aggressive.

A long time – a lifetime – ago, there had been a Drama teacher with a love of swordsmanship who had insisted all his students not only learn stage fencing, but genuine, historical rapier work as well, the better to add realism to their choreography. Naturally, John and the other students had loved it, and thrown themselves into their extracurricular studies with a will. All those years past, John had been good with a sword: very good indeed.

Mycroft cocked an eyebrow at John, looking, for a moment, genuinely surprised . . . and then a spark glinted in his eyes and a tiny smile touched the corners of his mouth. The expression made him look so much like Sherlock it was uncanny. Without ever letting the tip of his umbrella waver, he, too, shifted his posture, bringing his legs together, straightening and raising his right arm so that it, and the umbrella he held, formed a neat right angle with his spine.

The heat of anger shifted in John, transmuting into something more like fierce amusement. and a puff of half-laughter escaped his lips. _Spanish. Of course the bastard fences Spanish style,_ John thought, and came onto a full Italian guard, right leg, right arm and cane leading for offense, left leg and left hand – still clutching his coat – coiled and ready for defense.

Mycroft's smile widened, and he began, with a deceptively casual air, to walk slowly to one side, beginning to describe the arc of a wide circle, centered on the point of his sword.

John grinned back in challenge, and shifted to follow Mycroft's movement, analyses and strategies running through his mind at lightning speed.

Mycroft had the reach, no doubt about that, and he'd clearly had training. Spanish style was a bitch to deal with on the best of days . . . but John at least had some experience against it (Mr. Whitcombe had been nothing if not thorough in his obsessions), and was thus at less of a disadvantage than he might have been. He also had the advantage of a serendipitous offhand weapon: his coat would work nicely as a cloak. John was fencing with his weak hand, but he was used to that – it had been easier to learn the techniques if he, like his fellow students (and instructor) trained right-handed. John was a great many years out of practice and rusty as hell, but from the way Mycroft was moving, the other man didn't exactly swing a sword around on a daily basis, either. John could already feel a slight burn in his thigh muscles from the unfamiliar posture . . . but, though he didn't register it consciously, the psychosomatic pain in his leg had vanished with the flood of adrenaline running through his veins.

 _This,_ he thought with pleasure, _is going to be interesting._

Mycroft almost daintily reached forward to touch the tip of his umbrella to the end of John's cane, using the barest pressure – not trying to push the cane out of the way, but instead seeking to gauge his opponent's strength and intent. That was the way Spanish style worked, the careful keeping at a distance, the mental chess of finding the opponent's weaknesses.

The Italians had preferred to be a bit more direct.

John tapped lightly at Mycroft's umbrella-tip: not hard, but testing in return. Once, twice . . . then he lunged into motion, pushing the tip of his cane towards Mycroft's chest while at the same time sweeping his coat up in a circular motion to knock aside Mycroft's weapon. Because they weren't using proper fencing gear, the thrust was slower than if John had been serious, with less force behind it, and he held his wrist ready to “break” if he actually contacted the other man (annoying as Mycroft might be, John had no actual wish to _hurt_ Sherlock's brother), but Mycroft sidestepped the blow, backing out of measure as he freed his captured umbrella from John's coat.

As Mycroft recovered his guard and stepped casually back into measure, umbrella-tip once again on-target at John's face, he was grinning – an actual, full-on, crooked Holmes grin. He began to circle, as relaxed as if he hadn't a care in the world. John followed, and the subtle game of jockeying for initiative and seeking an opening began again . . .

“What the _hell_ is going on here?”

The startled exclamation made both fencers jump slightly. They looked in unison towards the doorway . . . where Sherlock stood, gaping at the scene before him.

“Ah, Sherlock,” John said, relaxing (though not enough to drop his guard; he'd had it drilled into him that one _never_ dropped one's guard until a match was properly over), “Mycroft was looking for you.” The stunned-fish expression on Sherlock's face was priceless, and John had to fight down a case of the giggles.

“Yes, Sherlock,” Mycroft said, and damned if there wasn't a hint of suppressed laughter in his voice as well, under the smooth tones and elegant accent. “You weren't answering my texts.”

Sherlock's brows knitted into a truly thunderous frown, and that was the tipping point for John, who began, helplessly, to laugh. He looked at Mycroft and broke his stance, straightening into his normal posture . . . and, on a whim, ended by sweeping his cane up into a formal salute to his erstwhile opponent.

Mycroft, chuckling, did the same. “You surprised me, Doctor Watson,” he said, dropping the salute and leaning on his umbrella. He sounded rather more human than usual. “I wasn't expecting you to be so experienced in the art of defense.”

“Something missing from your files, then?” John asked, pleasantly. “Bet someone's going to hear about that later.”

“Quite possibly,” Mycroft conceded, with a sharper edge to his smile. Then, “Perhaps, one of these days, with more proper attire, we can finish this, erm, discussion?”

John blinked and considered the unexpected offer. It _had_ been a long time, and he'd found the stretching of long-forgotten skills to be surprisingly pleasant. “Maybe so,” he said.

An irritated cough from the doorway redirected their attention to Sherlock. He was glowering now, obviously unhappy about being caught out, even for a moment. “That,” he told Mycroft in a clipped voice, “was pathetic. You've been parked behind a desk for years and it _shows_. No wonder you're getting fat again.”

Mycroft raised an eyebrow but didn't respond, the jibe about his weight seeming to bother him less than usual.

“And as for _you_ ,” Sherlock said, shifting his glare towards John, “do you have any _idea_ where your back foot was? You were ten seconds away from rolling your ankle. Good thing for you I showed up when I did.”

“Thanks for the pointer, Maestro,” John responded, dryly. “Now, if you'll excuse me, I was headed out to the pub. I'll just leave you two --” he waved the tip of his no-longer-necessary cane between the two brothers “-- to whatever business it was you had.” He moved toward the door, and as Sherlock shifted to let him pass, John paused as if struck by a thought.

“Here,” he said, kindly, offering Sherlock his cane. “You might want this.”

Sherlock huffed and rolled his eyes; Mycroft laughed. When Sherlock made no move to take the cane from him, John shrugged and set it by the door. “Your choice. Text if you need me. I'm sure I can pick up a curtain rod or something on the way, if necessary . . .”

“John,” Sherlock said, and it wasn't the start of a question.

“Gentlemen,” John said, with a parting wave, and grinned all the way down the stairs.


End file.
